Practically Perfect
by shannonann
Summary: SEDDIE 2-SHOT. Freddie is feeling lost. He sets out to find Sam. *rated T for alcohol use/mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HELLO :)  
I'm sure you could have guessed this on your own, but I do not own iCarly. I do, however, appreciats honest, but constructive feedback. This story isn't meant to be super dramatic, just a little Seddie fluff. ;) Well, not full-on fluff, but you know what I mean. LOL **

**I'm not totally in love with this, but I like it. Let me know what you think! **

* * *

He's not sure what he's doing here. Here, stuck between a woman blatantly staring at him and a man attempting to hide a dirty magazine from his disapproving gaze by turning it the other way. The man seems completely unaware of the "ew!'s" and giggles the magazine is provoking from the wide-eyed little girls across the aisle. Freddie smiles in spite of the fact that they'll most likely be scarred for life.

He's already turned down the pretzels at least 7 times, yet here she is again, with her noisy cart, asking if he'd like any. _No, thank you, _he says in his politest voice and she smiles at him like he's adorably naive or something, like he's unaware of how much he actually needs them. He just wants to hit her. She pushes the cart on up the aisle, wheels squeaking like banshees, and continues to badger the other passengers about her apparently life-changing pretzels. He watches an elderly woman finally take her up on the offer and cart-lady glows. He fights back the hope that it will satisfy her need to give away the pretzels and maybe she'll leave him alone.

He studies the lines on his palm for the fourteenth time. He's got them memorized now: the deepest line in the center branches off into 3 smaller, shallower lines. Another deep one towards the top branches off into two shallower ones, one of which only continues on its own for about a centimeter. He's not really all that interested in these studies, but he'll do anything to keep from looking at the woman to his left, who has spent the last four hours staring him down. What's her problem anyway? Why does she find him so interesting? His studies end as he clenches his fists and breathes in deep.

"Can I help you?" he turns to face her finally and she shrinks back, like she was completely unaware that he even existed.

He expects some profound answer, or at least an annoyingly odd one, but all she says is, "no," before turning to stare out the window, seeming annoyed that he had spoken to her. As if he had been the one making her uncomfortable.

A light comes on overhead and Freddie reaches for his seatbelt. Dirty-magazine man seems confused by this action, but looks overhead and follows suit. Creepy staring lady isn't inclined to fall in line so quickly, though, and waits until she's told: _Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be touching down in New York shortly. At this time we ask that everyone fasten their seatbelts for landing. _

He doesn't remember when he started to need to come and see her. He tries to remember, but it just seems like he always has. Everything was ten times harder without her there and he's always thought that, if he could just talk to her in person, it would go back to being easy. And so he came: 2,408 miles, across 6 states, spending 6 and a half hours on a plane full of freaks. And he's hopelessly lost. The map he bought at the airport is disgustingly confusing and he's tempted to crinkle it in a ball and toss is at a passerby. The street is jam-packed full of people in power suits, walking as if they're going to save the world or something in one of the skyscrapers that surrounded them on all sides. They push past him as he stands awkwardly, turning the map upside down in a ditch attempt to decipher it.

Then, miraculously, after 15 frustrating minutes, he has some sort of breakthrough and ends up at the coffee shop she had mentioned working at in her last email, which had come about 14 months earlier. He's scared; what are the chances of her holding down a job for that long, especially with her temper? But then he realizes that he hasn't seen her in 5 years and she could very well be a completely different person. He is, after all.

She'd shocked them all with news of her leaving. Her mom had gotten the job offer of her life and had taken it immediately. They were leaving in exactly 3 weeks. July 4th. _But we'll be seniors in the fall! Don't you want to graduate with the kids you've grown up with? _Carly had begged her to stay and sleep in the spare room of the apartment she shared with Spencer, but she wouldn't hear it. Her mind was already in New York.

He had been able to see it perfectly in her eyes: this was her chance. She could start over in New York, be whoever she wanted to be, go to college, become an artist, anything. She could leave her reputation as a screw-up behind and become a princess, or something similarly fantastic. And so, even though it felt like his stomach was dangerously close to sending everything he had eaten that day back up the way it came, he had smiled and told her how excited he was for her.

Sometimes he wonders if she would have listened if _he_ had asked her to stay.

In college, Carly discovered Brent, the love of her life, and Freddie discovered beer. Freshman year, Carly and Brent spent every waking hour together. Freddie spent the morning of his psychology final with his head in a frat house toilet.

_That's it!_ He suddenly remembers. That was when he started to need to see her: his F in psychology.  
He had never gotten anything below an A, ever. An A minus was always enough to make him go misty-eyed yet suddenly, he felt himself being totally fine with the fact that he'd flunked a class. Whatever. That's when he'd realized that everything was harder now. He was different and he didn't want to be.

Her emails slowed as she got busier with her new life. She was in love with everything about NYU, and her coffee shop job was taking up any time not spent studying. The emails got shorter and shorter before months went by with no correspondence at all. When he got any word, it was a few sentences: _Sorry I haven't written in so long, life's busy! Hope you're doing well. Tell your mom 'hey' for me, okay? _When did she start caring about his mom? Not that he minded her caring, but it wasn't the _her_ that he knew. She was probably becoming a completely different person, all the way across the country, and Freddie, stuck in the same place that he'd always been, had no idea.

3 years later, 3 months from graduating with an Engineering degree, he felt no different than he had his freshman year. Everything and everyone had changed, but not him. He was stuck. Carly and Brent were busy planning their wedding, his mother was busy ruining his life by dating Lewbert, and daily emails from the graduation office were busy reminding him of his completely uncertain and fast-approaching future, looming over him like a Seattle thunderstorm. He didn't want to graduate, he just wanted more beer.

He just wanted to stop. He wanted everything to slow down, just for a second. He needed for something, anything, to be easy for him. But every aspect of his life seemed determined to be as difficult as possible. Then it hit him: what if she's the same? What if she's still her old self, minus the newfound fondness of his mother? If he could just talk to her, just see her the way she had always been, everything would seem easier. It would seem like something in the world was still somewhat semi-normal. So he came.

_It's the perfect excuse,_ he assures himself as he tries to gather the courage to enter the coffee shop. _It's her 21__st__ birthday. That totally makes it not creepy at all for me to fly across the country and see her._

But he's suddenly unsure and horrified at who he might find. He doesn't know her here. He only knows her in Seattle, not New York. He's only been here 3 hours and can already feel how incredibly different the two places are; how could she possibly not change with it? He should just leave, this is too risky. He should just turn around and go back to the—He crushes the thought. He flew all the way here, spent money he should be using to pay off student loans with, and endured those squeaky pretzel cart wheels for 6 hours straight. He's not backing out now.

He watches his hand shake as he reaches for the handle and pushes for a split second before he realizes the word _"pull"_ is written in sharpie above it. A bell rings, announcing his entrance, but no one notices. The place is packed. She had mentioned it was popular in her emails, but he wasn't expecting this. There are 3 twisting lines, reaching all the way to the door. People are shouting out orders and brandishing money, as if they expect it to magically change the fact that they're at the tail end of the line. His heart sinks. Even if she still works here, how could he ever find her in all of this? Would he even recognize her if he saw her? He turns in 2 full circles, surveying the place as much as he can between the people, most of them in business suits, glancing nervously at their watches.

He decides to leave. Maybe he'll get a hotel and come back first thing in the morning. Maybe then he can ask the manager about her…when will she be there, does she even work there, does he even know her? He glances at his own watch: 6:07. He wonders if there's any hotel rooms left in New York so late in the day. How do things work in New York? Ugh, what is he doing here?

And that's when he feels it. Eyes. Eyes on him. It's not totally surprising that someone's glance would fall on him in a place this crowded, but it feels familiar. He feels like he knows the eyes, as crazy as it sounds.

He turns in one last circle, combing through every pair of eyes visible to him when he sees her, standing behind the counter, in plain sight through one of the gaps in the crowd. How had he missed her? He feels his eyes go wide and his stomach start to twist. Of course she had found him first. She always beat him at everything, even when she wasn't even trying.

She's looking at him like she saw a ghost. He can't read her; he can't tell if she's happy, or sad, or annoyed, or ecstatic, and the uncertainty is too much for him. He hadn't considered the thought of her rejecting him when he decided to come, and he panics and whirls around, desperately reaching for the door handle. He can still feel her gaze and it's weighing down on him harder than everything back home in Seattle combined. It's too much. His mother was right about his "emotional vulnerability." His heart is beating too hard and fast for comfort. It feels like it could come out of his chest at any moment and he has to get outside, the bloody mess would probably be easier to clean off of the sidewalk than the linoleum of the coffee shop.

He doesn't know what to do once he's out, but he can breathe a little better. The sun is too bright and the cars on the street are too loud. Everything feels even harder than before and he doesn't know who he is. His eyes close and he can hear his heart beat loud in his ears; it doesn't seem to have any plans of slowing down soon. He stands still for a moment, trying to figure out his next move. He'd just found what he came here for and it was horrifying. What now? He realizes with disdain that he hadn't formulated any 'Plan B.' He contemplates all the hours he'll have to work to pay back the money he spent on the plane ticket as he starts to walk. His map is still folded in his pocket, so he doesn't know where he's going. Anywhere but here.

He's made it about 10 steps before he hears the jingle of the coffee shop door opening. _It's just someone going in. It's popular. It's just someone going in._

He assures himself that it's just the next customer going in to brave the massive lines. But it's not. It's her. Somehow he knew it would be, but his whole body goes numb when he hears her. Breathing is suddenly the most difficult feat he's ever undertaken, and he thinks there's no way his heart can go on like this for too much longer. He'll probably drop dead any second now.

"Freddie!" she yells. She sounds desperate, like her very existence hinges on him hearing her. For a moment, he thinks they're feeling the same thing. "Freddie Benson?"

He can't remember how to work his legs, but luckily they're well-experienced and know how to turn on their own.

And there she is. She looks a little different in the sunlight than she had in the dim coffee shop; the sun makes her hair look 7 different shades of blonde. She looks different than she had the last time he'd saw her. She wears less make-up now and she looks more mature; not older, just more mature. Her hair is much longer than it used to be. Even tied back in a ponytail, which is hanging about as loose as it can without completely coming out, he can see that it's longer. Her clothes aren't what she would have worn in Seattle. Her black cardigan over her light green shirt seems too tame. Her jeans only have one hole in them, slightly below the right pocket, and she looks too put together to be herself. But her fingernails are painted purple, and it gives him hope of her being the same person he remembers.

It's a good 30 seconds of staring before he realizes he should probably say something. He opens his mouth to say something and out comes, "Happy Birthday."

She looks at him like he's insane. Her head shakes slightly and her mouth falls open even more than it had been. "Happy Birthday?" She says it like it's a question and he doesn't understand. Is she upset? Does she not want him there? It doesn't seem possible, but he feels his heartbeat quicken.

He looks down at his feet, attempting to formulate an appropriate response, but suddenly she's on him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms strangling his neck, and her fingers in his hair, she clings to him and he clings back. She smells different, but in a good way. She smells like, coffee, of course, and cinnamon, and a little bit like vodka. He'd know that smell anywhere. 21st birthday or not, he hadn't expected her to be an alcohol virgin. Though he so desperately wants her to be the same, he likes this new smell and breathes as deep as he can to take her in, until his lungs burn with the need to let it out. They stay like that for a few more seconds and he wishes it could last forever. He feels exactly how he wanted to feel; he feels like everything has slowed down finally, like the world stopped turning just for them.

She wiggles from his grasp and drops to the sidewalk in front of him, her eyes shining with moisture. Tears from _her_ shock him, he's never seen her cry and he doesn't know how to respond. But she smiles and takes both of his hands in hers.

She squeals and starts to jump up and down repeatedly. "I can't believe this, I cannot believe this!"

Freddie laughs and, for the first time in a long time, isn't pretending. His eyes follow her up and down, up and down, until her arms go around his neck again.

"Freddie Benson." she says into his shoulder so quietly that he can barely hear her.

"Sam." he whispers back and squeezes her as tight as his arms will allow.

"For my birthday?" she asks drawing back, "You came all the way here for my birthday?"

"Hey, 21 is a big number!" It's not a complete lie. 21 is a big birthday. Well, at least to normal people…Freddie had gotten the pleasurable experience of spending his 21st with his mother giving him an hour-long lecture about the dangers of alcoholism…he had spared her the truth of just how well-acquainted with those horrors he already was. "And I…just missed you." His hands go awkwardly into his pockets.

"I—" she starts to respond but gets cut off by a vibrating sound. "Oh, hang on a sec."

She pulls out a cell phone from her pocket and hits a button before holding it to her ear.

"Hello? Hey! Yeah, yeah, I totally remember, um….it's just that…Yes, I know you're totally stoked, but something kinda came up. No! No, it's just a really great friend of mine just got into town…."

He feels a weird, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realizes that she is talking about him. They've been apart for 5 years, and she still refers to him as a "really great friend."

"No, of course I would love to go, but—Okay, Jen, I just can't!"

The warm feeling fades as he realizes that he's ruined her plans. Of course she has plans, of course! How had he not even considered that? It's her 21st birthday…how stupid is he?

"No, Jen. I'm not gonna do that…because he's not trashy!" she looks up at him grinning, and winks. "No, he doesn't do the kind of crap that you guys do, okay?" she laughs.

His chest feels tight at the realization that she doesn't know who he is now; he's changed in the past 5 years. In fact, he probably does all the trashy stuff that Jen and her friends do, _and then some_. He goes back and forth in his mind: tell her the truth, or ruin her plans and let her keep believing he's still Saint Fredward? Would she be disappointed in how he's changed? Would she still want him there?

"No, Sam, let's go! I mean, if you want me to go with you….I'd love to meet your friends."

She looks confused at first; the Freddie she knew wouldn't be thrilled with partying, but she seems to warm up to the idea.

"Oh, okay. Yeah, let's go!" she opens her mouth, clearly about to say something into the phone when she stops. She takes the phone away from her ear and holds her hand over it, covering the mouthpiece, shielding Jen from what she was about to say.

She suddenly looks embarrassed and her cheeks turn pink with heat. "They're…they're kinda raunchy. Is that—is that okay?"

His stomach twists into a knot because he knows she's concerned about what he thinks of her, when she shouldn't be. He's not who she thinks he is. He makes up his mind to fill her in on what exactly he's been up to for the last 5 years before the night is over. "It's not a problem," he replies.

She smiles, clearly relieved, and puts the phone back to her ear. "Jen? Jen, we're coming, okay?" She loops her arm in with his and starts to lead him off in the opposite direction of the way he had been running from her only a few moments earlier. "Yes, both of us….uh-huh, uh-huh…Jen, Jennifer, listen to me. How much have you had to drink already, hon?...Yeah, that's what I thought...Listen, why don't you stop until we get there, okay? Chill for a while…"

He smiled at how ridiculous and wonderful it all seemed. Sam was the responsible one in her New York crowd. Atta girl. He'd always known she had it in her.

Ten minutes later, she's leading him through a smoke-filled bar. He's been to some parties, but this bar…the air is so thick he could barely breathe and the music was pounding harder than his heart had earlier. There are people everywhere, propped up against the bar, making out in corners, dancing between the tables. Sam seems unfazed by it all, so he just lets her drag him through it.

Her free hand grabs 2 beers from the edge of the counter as they make their way past. She turns to face him, walking backwards and brandishing one of the beers at him.

"Do you drink, Benson?"

He seriously considers answering 'no', but he figures it would be easier to let the truth come out a little at a time, so instead he goes with, "Definitely," and takes the beer from her hand.

She makes a surprised face before taking a gulp of her own. "Well, Freddie!"

They reach a table at the back and Sam takes a seat, patting for Freddie to sit in the chair next to her. He obeys and realizes that it's suddenly much quieter. Sam smirks.

"You have to sit at this table or you can't hear a thing. The speaker is around a corner from here, so it cuts the sound out a little."

He opens his mouth to comment on her resourcefulness, but stops short.

"Happy Birthday, baby." A sloppy blonde guy, about a foot taller than Sam, throws his arm around her shoulder. The half-empty liter of vodka in his hand tells Freddie that it's probably only so he can stay upright, but he still wants to rip his hand off of his wrist.

And then it happens. He does it. He smashes his face onto Sam's and sticks his tongue down her throat. Freddie chokes on the beer he had just started to swallow and gasps for air. What's happening? Who is this guy? What's he doing to her? Why is she letting him do it? Freddie feels like someone is scooping his chest out with one of those lame little melon ball scoopers his mom uses. He's tempted to get up and leave because it was probably a mistake to come here. But he doesn't; he stays and stares and tortures himself, like he always does.

Sam elbows the blonde guy away and rolls her eyes. "You're drunk, _baby._" The words sound mean and spiteful, kind of the way Freddie had always heard Sam's mom talk to her many boyfriends.

He panics. No, not this, not for Sam. She isn't supposed to have a life like her mother's. She isn't supposed to have relationships like her mother's, with douchebags like the douchebags her mother always dated.

"Freddie," he feels her hand on his and comes back into reality, "this is Adam. Adam, this is Freddie. We go way back."

"WAAAAAYYY BACKKKKK?" Adam holds the bottle of vodka triumphantly in the air, like the phrase was some sort of war cry. "Right on, man, right on! Old friends, right?" He offers his fist to Freddie and Freddie reluctantly hits it with his own. Adam seems to find this entirely hilarious and falls to the floor in laughter.

"Good Lord…" Sam groans.

A clink of glass and Adam suddenly gasps. The two of them look down to see him frantically trying to scoop up vodka off the floor back into his bottle.

"Disgusting." Sam murmurs, confusing Freddie. But it gave him hope. Maybe he could pull her away from this guy; she doesn't seem too terribly attached. Maybe he can—

"SAM!" ten different slurry voices call out at once from across the room. Sam's head whips to the left and she lights up. Freddie turns too and sees a table full of half-dressed girls, motioning dramatically for Sam to join them.

"I'll be right back, okay?" she says, her hand on his again. "Just…don't let Adam die, or anything." She laughs and takes off toward the girls. When she reaches them they erupt in cheers and shouts of _"TWENTY-ONE, BABY"_ and _"PARTY!"_ One girl stands off to the side, making pistols with her hands and pretending to fire them into the air, sound effects and all. Freddie has no doubt that this is Jen.

_Speaking of drunken messes…._ Freddie looks down to the ground for Adam, but he's gone. The bottle of vodka sitting in a puddle of what is, no doubt, it's spilled contents, speaks volumes. Freddie combs the crowd for a sign of him. He looks past the scantily clad girls and the creepy, prowling boys until he finally finds Adam's torn leather jacket and greasy hair. But that's not all he finds.

Adam is engaged in a full-on lip-lock with a brunette in a far too short red dress. His hands are all over her and hers are tangled in his hair. It's disgusting and Freddie feels his fists clench.

"Shit." He looks nervously over at Sam, still caught up in the excitement of her girlfriends. But she's saying good-bye now and heading back over toward Freddie. What is he supposed to do? Lie to her? Tell her about Adam? Does she already know? He feels his chest tighten at the thought of her being hurt by this jerkoff.

"Sam, um, hi." _Sam, um, hi? Seriously?_

"Um hi," she responds, furrowing her brow at him and taking another sip of beer, "Everything okay? Wait, Adam's not dead, is he?" She laughs out loud and Freddie grins nervously.

"No, no. He's…" Freddie steals a quick glance in the direction of Adam's infidelity. Sam sees and her eyes follow. "Sam…" he immediately starts to try and come up with ways to make her feel better, or at least calm her down so she doesn't start flipping tables or something.

Her eyes scan the area she had seen Freddie look to. He watches her for some sort of reaction but sees nothing. "What is it?" she asks, seeming worried.

"Sam…Adam."

"What about him?"

"He's…kissing that girl!"

"Yeah…that's kinda what he does." To Freddie's surprise, she laughs. "He's just a really sloppy drunk. Don't let it fool you, though. He's an accountant by day!"

She turns her beer upside down to down the rest of it and starts to look around for another. Freddie has never been so confused.

"You're okay with that? But's he's your—" She holds up a hand and cuts him off.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, _nooo._ Boyfriend? Is that what you were going to say?" her laughter rings out through the music and the shouts. "No way, Benson. Give me a little credit, okay? The dude's a creep!"

"No, I mean, I just thought—" he stammers before she cuts him off, grinning wide.

"You thought wrong, Fred_weird_. He is so not what I'm looking for."

His stomach turns at her statement. He knows he shouldn't ask, but there's alcohol in him, liquid courage, and he can't help himself.

"What exactly are you looking for?"

Her eyes meet his and stay there for a long time before she finally answers. "I'll settle for decent. I'll even take semi-normal." She half-smiles. "What about you?"

He can't bring himself to look her in the eye as he searches for an answer. He can feel her gaze burning holes in the side of his head. "Uh, decent will do."

She gets up from the table and squeezes his hand. "More beer for us, Benson!"

2 more beers and Sam can't sit still. She's currently dancing circles around the table where Freddie still sits, and singing songs from every Disney movie he's ever heard of. She's just finished a number from "The Lion King." Freddie looks on in laughter as she begins "A Spoonful of Sugar." She hears him laughing and stops her twirling, for the first time in fifteen minutes.

"Freddie!" she drapes her arms around his neck for a split second before taking his face in her hands. "You're so cute! I miss you, you little cutie pie!" She shakes his head back and forth with her hands and sticks out her bottom lip.

Suddenly she gasps, clearly struck with a drunken idea. "Why don't you live in New York?" She sticks her arms out like wings, showing him New York which, at the moment, consists of a run-down bar. "It's perfect! We're so much _funner_ than Seattle." She makes a face and sticks out her tongue.

"Yeah, you certainly seem to be," Freddie laughs and steadies her as she spins around, her arms still spread out beside her. He's never seen Sam drunk before, but if this is her after 3 beers, he should probably make sure she doesn't have any more.

"Sam?" he asks hesitantly.

"Fredderly?" she bats her eyes at him.

"You know what part of New York I would really love to see? Your house. Can you take me there, Sam?"

She gasps with excitement and pokes his chest with her right pointer finger. "Yes. Brilliant, Freddie! You can come live at my apartment…I don't have cats, so it's okay!"

"What do cats have to do with anything…?" he starts to ask, but she's already stomping back toward the exit of the bar, calling for him to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

Her apartment is not what he would picture her in. It's almost…artsy. There are lots of bookshelves lined with…get this…_books_. Books? In Sam Puckett's apartment? The walls are painted a bright yellow color and the kitchen cabinets are sky blue; she's even painted little white clouds on some of them. She clomps over to the refrigerator and pulls out two more beers, before moving to a lavender couch…where she found furniture that color, he may never know…and sits with a huge sigh.

Freddie doesn't follow. He walks around the living room, taking in who she is now. There are pictures, lots of pictures. Most of them are of her and her mom. They look so happy. He smiles because they were never happy in Seattle. There are lots of Sam with the pistol girl, Jen. They're best friends, he assumes. His heart hurts a little because he knows she's taken Carly's place. He recognizes Adam's face in a few photos of large groups, but there's none of just him and Sam. The knot in his stomach starts to loosen up.

"Freddieeeeee," he hears Sam squeak sleepily from the sofa behind him and turns to face her. "Come sit with me. Why are you walking around? Stop that."

He laughs and moves to join her on the couch. "My bad, princess."

She lets out a loud giggle at her old nickname. "I forgot!" She leans back against the cushion and closes her eyes. "We had so much fun, didn't we?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we did," he says as he takes one of the beers from her.

She turns her head toward him and opens her eyes. "How are you, Freddie?"

I'm good," he smirks, "how are you, Sam?"

"Nooo," she whines, "how are you Freddie? Are you happy?"

There it is: the question that he knew would come eventually. She's always been able to read him, no matter how hard he tried to prevent it. But still, part of him wants to lie. He wants to say that yes, of course he's happy, why wouldn't he be? Everything is fine and dandy…he's graduating, his degree will make him tons of money, no doubt…of course he's happy.

But a bigger part of him wants to tell the truth. Because if anyone will understand it's her; if anyone can make him feel better, it's her; if anyone deserves to be trusted with the truth, it's her. If he's going to open up to anyone, he wants it to be her. Just her.

"No."

The look on her face, it breaks his heart. It's a look of genuine pain. She's hurting for him. And he's hurting for both of them.

"Why not?" she inquires.

He doesn't know how to answer so he just shakes his head. He feels Sam's hand on his leg.

"I'm not sure," he answers finally. "I don't know."

She moves to get up, but stumbles and falls back to the couch. Freddie is surprised; he'd almost forgotten she was drunk. On her knees on the sofa cushion, she puts her hands on his face again, just as she had at the bar when she'd called him a "cutie pie."

"I wish that you were happy." Even through the beer-induced fog in her eyes, he could see that she was sincere.

"I'm happy right now." It's not a lie, which surprises him. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, he's happy. He's happy with her. He's happy here, away from everything that makes him unhappy. She's managed to make him forget it all.

His answer seems to please her because she grins and hugs him tight. "Oh, Fredderly. I just want you to be the happiest person. No one else is nice to me like you always were. I was more scared to leave you than I was anyone else. You're the best friend, Freddie, the best."

He doesn't know how to process this; Sam never pours her heart out to anyone, especially not to him. He hugs her tighter and she does the same. He's scared to let go, he just wants to say there forever, but eventually she pulls away and puts her hands in his. "Just stay here and be happy, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees.

Satisfied, she plants her face in his lap with a groan and lets her now half-empty beer hang over the side of the couch. He runs his hand up and down her back. He lets her stay that way for a few minutes, quiet, peaceful, before he can't bear the silence anymore and decides he has to talk.

"Well, I am thoroughly shocked." He says.

"By what?" she sits up quickly, revealing the imprint of his jeans on her forehead.

"The Great Sam Puckett is a lightweight!"

She narrows her eyes and lets her jaw hang. "That is **not** true," she protests. She takes another giant swig of beer, just to prove him wrong.

Freddie leans over until their faces almost touch. "Handle your alcohol, sweetie," he says in a whisper.

He thinks he's upset her for a moment until she bursts out in laughter. Freddie follows suit, both of them bent over with laughter, tears threatening to spill over the rims of their eyes.

"Carly would be shocked," he says once he can breathe.

Suddenly she sits up straight, gasps, and flails her hands, the way he's seen all the girls do back in Seattle when Carly talks to them about her wedding plans. He smiles.

"Oh, Carly! I got the invitation last week!" she grins wide and her eyes light up once again. "She asked me to be a bridesmaid, you know? I haven't seen the dresses yet, but she says they're gorgeous. And you know Carly's always had great taste."

She sighs a big sigh and her head collapses onto his shoulder. He lets his head fall onto hers.

"If you could marry anyone in the entire world, who would it be?" she asks sleepily.

He thinks for a minute. He's never been asked this question. After the conversation they've just had, only one name pops into his head. Only one person in the world, besides his mother, had every seemed to so desperately want him to be happy. But he can't say it; he can't make things awkward and creepy. He goes with the first safe answer he can muster: "Natalie Portman." Sam laughs.

"Okay, what about you?" he asks.

She's quiet for a long time, her head still on his shoulder, and he starts to think she might have fallen asleep.

"Hmmm…" he hears her start as she raises her head to sit up straight, "YOU!"

She yells the word and suddenly her mouth is on his. It's warm, and soft, and she tastes better than he remembers from junior high. He's taken by surprise, but not so much that he doesn't know what he wants. He kisses her back and his fingers find their way to her hair. Nothing is difficult in this moment; it's the easiest thing he's ever done. Normally he would push for more, but he's perfectly content with her lips on his. He doesn't want to do anything to mess it up. It's comfortable, and easy, and perfect. She's perfect. Everything else in the world sucks, but right here, everything is good. For once.

But then, she does it. She changes the way she's kissing him and he knows exactly what it means. He's felt the same kiss from at least 30 different drunken sorority girls. They all wanted the same thing and he gave it to them all. Everything in him wants to do the same now, but he can't. Those girls were just girls; he was perfectly content to wake up in the morning only to see them gathering their clothes and rushing out the door, not even able to remember their names. Those girls were just girls, but this…this is Sam. His Sam. She's different. She's special. He shudders at the thought of some guy doing to her what he had done to so many other girls.

He breaks the kiss and pushes her backward. She juts her bottom lip out in protest, but breaks into a yawn and lays her head back on his shoulder. He thinks she doesn't even realize what she just did, that last swig of beer had just sent her over the edge. But suddenly she collapses into his lap and buries her face in his leg.

"You don't like me." It isn't a question. She states it as fact, a little like a whiny four-year-old, but she sounds like she truly believes it. She sounds hurt.

"Sam…"

She turns her face away from him, out toward the rest of the room, covered by her blonde curls. He brushes them away to see her eyes squeezed shut tight.

"Sam, not now, not like this. I can't, okay? We're drunk and I, I…I want to remember you."

She seems satisfied with this answer because her scrunched up face relaxes and so does the rest of her. She's quiet for a long time and he thinks she's fallen asleep again. But then she starts in, quiet and sleepy:

"When Mary holds your hand…you feel so grand. Your heart starts beatin' like a big. Brass. Band."

Freddie smiles and thinks it's possible that she might have the prettiest drunk, Disney-song, singing voice in the entire world.

"Ohhhhhhhh, " she holds out the '_oh_' for far too long, "it's a jolly holiday with Maryyy! No wonder that it's Mary that we loooove!"

"Did you know," she says loudly and rolls over onto her back, using Freddie's lap as a pillow, "that Mary Poppins is practically perfect? In _every way_?"

"Is she now?" he laughs.

"I'm serious!" Sam responds, opening her eyes. "She's good people. Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."

"I bet." Freddie ignores the fact that her statement made no sense at all and just takes another gulp of his beer. It's warm as it goes down, burning slightly and filling up his entire stomach with warmth once he's swallowed it. That was why he liked alcohol so much: that warm feeling that he can't describe. Carly has asked him a thousand times why he drinks so much, and a thousand times, he's failed at trying to explain that feeling to her. She usually suggests that the warmth is just be liver damage occurring and he can't argue, she's probably right. Still, it doesn't stop him.

He tilts his head back and takes in the last sip of liquid at the bottom of the bottle. And he doesn't know what it does to him, but suddenly he has to do it. He has to say it. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just the fact that it's so warm and perfect in her apartment, but he can't hold it in any more. It's the reason that he came here, he can't lie to himself about that any longer, and he wants nothing else in the whole wide world more than to just say it:

"Sam…"

She's closed her eyes again, but she raises her eyebrows to show that she's heard him.

"I love you."

She keeps her eyes closed but she smiles. Her hand comes up and pats him twice on the cheek before she lets it lazily slide across his face and fall down to her side. He kisses her fingers as they move across his mouth on their way down. Once her hand is down, it doesn't stay that way for long. She points a finger at him, eyes still closed.

"You're good people, Freddie Benson."

She reaches for the blanket thrown over the back of the sofa and pulls down once her hand finds it. She rolls over to face out toward the room and wraps the blanket around herself.

"Good, good people," she says, almost too quietly for him to hear. "Just stay here and be happy."

The exhaustion in her voice must be contagious because he suddenly finds it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. The alcohol is warm inside him and his lips are still warm with the taste of hers. This, this is why he came. This is why he endured 6 hours in the air with the creepiest bunch of people he'd ever met. To be happy. He leans against the arm of the sofa and lets his hand get tangled in her hair.

"You, Sam Puckett, are practically perfect in every way."

She doesn't respond right away and he's sure she's finally gone to sleep once and for all. But, as usual, she proves him wrong.

"Minus the practically," she states, and then giggles.

Freddie lets out a laugh; there she is, the same old Sam. His Sam.

He's almost there, turning that last corner before you hit the wall and fall asleep when he hears her finish her thought: "You know it's true."

Even if he wasn't so tired that moving his mouth to respond was an impossibility, he still wouldn't argue. She was right. 'Practically' belonged nowhere between the words 'Sam' and 'perfect.'

* * *

**Welllllll? Be a doll & review, if you please. :) **


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